


These Pieces You Left

by lumosinlove



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John - Freeform, John Watson - Freeform, John/Sherlock - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Sherlock's Coat, john x sherlock - Freeform, mention of suicide, sherlock x john, sherlock/john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 16:28:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11039937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosinlove/pseuds/lumosinlove
Summary: What follows the fall.What follows the return.And a single note that was suppose to be enough, but was not.





	These Pieces You Left

It was raining, which wasn’t unusual for London. Not at all. The water fell around John, splattering in large droplets against the darkened pavement, running in rivers along the street curbs. Running a pinkish hue just by…

John squeezed his eyes shut, cowering into the protection of the ambulance’s interior, turning away and clutching at the lapels of the too long coat that hugged around his shoulders. It was warm, but he could not longer tell who had made it that way, whether it was Sherlock’s warmth lingering, or his own replacing. He wished he could freeze himself, so as not to overpower what little of Sherlock he had left. This coat. This warmth.

And it was warmth. Despite what everyone, everyone had thought. It was warmth.

He heard a soft throat clearing and then a shadow over him, blocking out the streetlight, making the flashing police sirens appear brighter, angrier.

“Um. John…”

John made a noise to show he was listening but he didn’t turn towards Donovan, he couldn’t turn towards where the rain was washing away yet another part of Sherlock.

“John.. I’m sorry…” For a moment John thought she was apologizing for her treatment towards Sherlock. Actually _apologizing_. He was about to stand, to yell, to fucking slap her, fucking scream at her that _it’s a little fucking late for that, don’t you think_ , when she continued, “I’m sorry, John but we need… For evidence we need-“

“Donovan.” Greg’s voice now, “Don’t.”

“But sir-“

“Leave it be.” He was stern, and John could picture his eyebrows pulled low, lips thin and pressed into a frown, “Alright? Let it alone.” Then lower, clearly not meant for John to hear, “He needs it more than we do.”

_What do I need? What haven’t I lost? What could I possibly need?_

He felt someone sit beside him, a hand on his knee, squeezing gently, “John, can I call someone? Is there someone for you to stay with?”

_Not anymore._

John cleared his throat, dipping his chin down to his chest in an attempt to breathe, to not breathe, to _anything_. He let out long breaths through his nose, only barely sucking them in again. He shook his head, no. No, there is no one. He didn’t open his eyes.

“Right… Okay.” Greg’s voice was blocked a bit, probably by tears which surprised John.

 _I need to cry. I should cry too_ , he thought dimly. 

_I can’t._

“Right, well, you’ll come with me, okay? You’re staying with me tonight and as long as you need afterwards… John,” Greg hesitated, then he felt his hand press comfortingly to his shoulder, “anything you need. Okay? Anything you need.”

And John could have laughed. Right then and there, with the rain washing away his best friend’s blood, wearing a dead man’s coat and not crying, he could have laughed.

_You can’t give me what I need._

~

Greg’s apartment was nice. It was clean. His wife was nice. The food was good, full meals every night. The bed was soft and the only think that woke him up in the early hours of the morning was himself, with his cold sweats and phantom noises of bone against cement to replace hot sands and the crack of a gun. There were always clean towels in the bathroom and nothing was rotting in the refrigerator. He always had hot water in the shower. What a wonderful home.

John was miserable. He couldn’t breathe. Not here.

A knock on his door caused him to raise his eyes from the thick fabric he gripped. He covered it with the sheet of his bed as the door opened and Greg stood there, still clad in a white undershirt and plaid pajama pants, hair mussed.

 _Sunday_. John thought vaguely. _Must be Sunday._

Sherlock would be proud of this small deduction. Not really.

He wondered how many Sundays had gone by since-

“Breakfast, mate? Alice’s making the full works.” Greg tried for a smile, but John could see the worry in ever line. So, he tried for a smile of his own.

“Yeah, brilliant. I’ll be down in a moment.”

“Coffee or tea?”

“Tea, please.” Greg nodded and went to leave when, “Wait, Greg?”

He poked his head back in.

John cleared his throat, “Two sugars. Please.”

John watched as his eyes went from expectant, to confused because _John, you don’t take sugar_ , to realization, to understanding, to sad, to pity. Then he just nodded, lips pressed into that familiar thin frown, and John listened to him trod down the stairs.

He pushed the sheet back, laying down and bringing the thick wool with him, the buttons cool against his skin. He pushed his nose into the collar, hopeful, but with no luck.

 _15_ , he thought. _That’s how many Sundays._

~

He was finally leaving Greg’s, much to both his and Alice’s protests.

“No, really, I can’t impose on you any longer.” He pushed his face into a smile, trying to ignore the sharp stabs of pain that flashed up his thigh with each step down to the street level, “Taken up enough of your food and kindness and, really,” They reached the street door and he turned to both of them, clasping Greg’s hand and shooting Alice a thankful look, “this has been too kind of you. I don’t know how to… I don’t know what I would have done…” Not for the first time, the lump in his throat appeared, but with no accompaniment of tears. He shook his head once, “Thank you.”

“You’ll let us know if you need anything, won’t you, John?” Alice’s eyes were big, hand gentle on his shoulder.

“Yes, promise.” He put his hand over hers briefly, “Definitely.”

“Really, mate, anything at all-“

“I promise.”

Greg deflated some, looking satisfied, and clapped him on the back, looking like he was about to hug him then thinking better of it.

John descended into the London air with only two thoughts: 

_What could I possibly need?_

And of the coat that was carefully folded at the very top of his suitcase.

~

It was dusty, which wasn’t unusual for Baker Street. Not at all. It flew, swirling around John when he opened the door, and then settled again. Everything was quiet.

John cleared his throat, dropping his bag by the door and looking around, clenching and unclenching his fists in an effort to not… he didn’t know what. Scream? Cry? Collapse. Lose.

He cleared his throat again, lump still there, lips pressed together, hands tugging his jacket from his shoulders. Dust flew up in a puff when he set it over their coat rack. The coat rack. There was rushed footsteps on the stairs accompanied by Mrs. Hudson’s nervous puttering and soon enough she was bustling in behind him quietly, duster in hand.

“Oh,” She sighed, turning from John to the room a few times, “look at this place.” She hurried over to the curtain’s first, pushing them open, allowing light to fill the room, and then John’s chair, picking up the flag pillow and beating it a few times, spluttering at the dust, “I couldn’t bare to come in, I just couldn’t. Such a mess.” She turned to John, wringing her hands around her apron, “I do wish you’d have told me you were coming home.”

John doesn’t answer for a moment, but crosses the room and closes the curtains again, flicking on Sherlock’s desk light instead, “I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t know myself until- don’t!”

John took a step forward, but his sudden yell had been enough to freeze Mrs. Hudson in place. She was staring wide eyed at John’s outstretched hand, hovering over Sherlock’s chair, duster not yet touching the leather.

John let out a shaky breath, “Don’t-“ He squeezed his trembling fingers into a fist, “Don’t, sorry.” He pressed his palms to his thighs, briefly bending over and letting out another breath, before straightening military straight, “Sorry, I’m sorry…”

 _Not another piece_ , his mind screamed at him, _don’t let another piece be so casually swept away._

John looked at the chair. He could swear he saw an indent, a shape of a figure, a break in the dust. He closed his eyes.

_Stop looking for scraps, what you want is too far gone._

Mrs. Hudson made a soft noise, fingers coming to her lips, “Oh, John…”

John blinked hard, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell.” He turned back to the desk, Sherlock’s side, the wood familiar and cool against his palms, “This is… I-“ He took another breath, “This… is difficult. Mrs. Hudson-“

“You don’t have to explain yourself, dear.” She picked her way around untouched piles of papers, case files, and mugs still half full with Sherlock’s long gone cold tea and took his hands between hers, “Loss is something I guess I can say I’m familiar with. And it does get easier I think… But only with time.” She gives his hands a small squeeze, “And you’ve barely had any of that at all.”

“Nearly five months.” John reminds her. Greg had moved on, he was functioning. Anderson and Donovan had too, not that he’d expected much remorse from them. Molly couldn’t look him in the eye but at least she smiled. He couldn’t say the same for himself. He didn’t know what he was.

“Like I said,” Mrs. Hudson picked up her duster and walked towards the door, keeping it pointedly downward so as not to cause more alarm, “barely any at all. I’ll fetch you a cuppa. I think I’ve some biscuits downstairs.”

The door shut and suddenly John was alone. So very alone in a place that had always felt… alive.

John stared at the door for a minute more before straightening, tilting his chin upward. The familiarity of the posture adjustment calmed him some, and he closed his eyes, basking in it for a moment, ignoring the pain in his leg until he couldn’t anymore. He groaned softly when he sat down in Sherlock’s desk chair, straightening his leg out beneath it in a way that reminded him of the many times he’d done it out of habit and his foot would nudge between Sherlock’s. Neither of them ever said anything about the subtle contact, they just worked like that, typing separately but together all the same. John pressed his lips into a hard line, worrying the inside of his cheek. The lump was back, lodge in his throat.

He stared down at the desk top. Sherlock’s computer sat pushed into the corner by the wall, nearly covered by stray pieces of paper littered in familiar messy handwriting. The majority of the desk was taken up by open notebooks and case files, both of which were peppered with the same handwriting and various sticky notes. A dagger was stabbed into one in particular, all the way through to the desk. John hesitated, but then wrapped his hand around the wooden grip. Warm, he imagined, full of the energy of Sherlock’s mind, his frustration. John swore he could feel it buzzing up from the object and into his veins. And he felt closer somehow. Closer to Sherlock, closer to a breaking point. The lump in his throat got worse.

He pulled, the dagger coming free with minimal fight, and picked up the note.

_730\. Day by day._

John stared at it, turned it over, stared at it some more. He looked around for other possibly related notes, but this one had been on its own, stuck to the desk. He sighed, leaning back into the chair and staring at the ceiling with a huff.

“Well, that’s not very helpful of you. I’m never going to know what you mean if you’re not here, am I?”

John waited, stupidly. No response.

He sighed, “Right.”

He folded the note, and put it in his jacket pocket. He was allowed to hold on to pieces, any pieces. So what if he didn’t understand them? He’d take what he could get. He got up and fell down into his chair, resigning to stare at the black leather in front of him until Mrs. Hudson returned with tea.

~

“You’ve become a liar, brother mine.”

Sherlock wraps himself tighter in the blanket. The fleece is too soft, too pliable against his skin, not at all what he’s use to. He curls himself tighter in one of Mycroft’s chairs. It’s too small, too cramped, not at all what he’s use to. 

“I’m nothing of the sort.” He keeps his eyes on the fire, “Isn’t there tea you should be fetching, or _asking_ someone to fetch?”

Mycroft ignores him, “You said you were leaving to finish whatever nonsense Moriarty started. That was, was it not, the reason behind this elaborate circus act?”

“I am.” Sherlock bites back, “It was.”

“It’s been nearly six months.”

Sherlock turns his head away from Mycroft further, jaw jutting out in a question, _your point_?

Mycroft reads into it easily, and Sherlock can hear the eyebrow raise in his voice, “You’re still here.”

“Obviously.”

“Questionable.”

“ _Temporary._ ”

“ _Excuses.”_

Sherlock turns sharply to Mycroft, eyes burning, “I need to make sure he’s okay.”

Mycroft tilts his chin up, head cocking to the side slightly, and smiles a sarcastic, very Holmes-like smile, “Him?”

Sherlock gets up promptly, keeping the blanket secure around his shoulders, “ _I’ll_ get the tea then, shall I?”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft rises too, looking more powerful despite Sherlock’s greater hight. 

“ _Don’t._ ” Sherlock turns on him, casting the blanket away, suddenly feeling hot all over, agitated, “Don’t. I don’t have an explanation for you. I don’t have a reason other than one you’ll disapprove of, something I’m sure you’re already aware. So, if you know you won’t like it, don’t make me say it.” Sherlock bit every word through his teeth, jaw tight, consonants sharpening the ends of each syllable.

Mycroft inhales a slow breath through his nose, looking at Sherlock carefully with the only look he knew Sherlock couldn’t read. Sherlock was about to comment on it, to push him farther away. He wanted to tell him that _John Watson is none of your concern_ and at the same time, _Please, please look after him while I_ _am away. Please take care of him. Please help him take care of himself._

_Please don’t let him forget me._

Mycroft released the breath softly, barely there. It sounded tired, and, suddenly, the look slipped. It slipped and Sherlock could, for just a moment, see the tiredness, the grief, and, least expected, the honesty that made up that unreadable expression. Mycroft lowered himself back to his chair, slouching minutely more than usual, but noticeably more to Sherlock.

“I have no disapproval when it comes to your happiness.” He looked to the fire, sharp nosed silhouette frowning, “Sherlock, do not think that I do.”

Sherlock swallowed down the fear that suddenly bloomed in his chest, settling itself around an ache that wasn’t there before. The ache that was John, and his cries against the wet, bloodied pavement. The fear that was losing him. The ache that was his brother, and knowing how much he cared without ever saying it aloud. The fear that was going off for he didn’t know how long, leaving behind the cloak of his protection.

“I can’t leave until I know he is okay. Or… that he will be. Okay.” He was talking about John. He was talking about more than John.

Mycroft turned slowly back to him, unreadable expression back. Sherlock couldn’t tell if he’d read into the double meaning.

“I will take every measure.” He stood again, only to bend down for the blanket, folding it impeccably as he spoke, draping it neatly over the back of the chair, “John Watson will be, if not alright then… functioning.”

Sherlock stared hard at the flames until they made his eyes burn instead of the threat of emotions. He nodded once, unable to mention that he’d seen that John had moved his gun from the desk drawer to his bedside table—Sherlock’s bedside table—and turned on his heel.

Functioning meant alive. Alive was all that mattered.

“And Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice stopped his footsteps, “this means no more spontaneous trips to Baker Street, does it not?”

Sherlock clenched his jaw, falling only briefly into his mind, making sure the door that was 221B and everything inside it was safely secure. He squeezed his eyes then opened them, opening the door of the sitting room,

“I leave tomorrow at dusk.”

~

John sat on his bed. Sherlock’s bed. He wore pajama pants. The thin cotton did nothing to protect against the cool gun that rested on his thigh, hand loosely around the handle.

How is it, that one could have gone so far, seen so much time pass, and end up right where they started? He was, after all, right where he was all those years ago. The young, traumatized soldier. The heartbroken friend. Friend?

John closed his eyes. There was no use in questioning it now. He put the gun away and went to make some tea. He was pouring the milk, plunking the sugars in, by the time he realized his mistake. He threw the second mug, tea splattering the walls, shards joining the others—or what would have been the others if Mrs. Hudson hadn’t cleared them up. He took his cup, the cracking sound ringing in his ears, to Sherlock’s desk, sitting down and drawing the slightly faded sticky note from his pocket, the knife hole getting more ripped by the day. It was practically two pieces now. He turned the light on to combat the darkness outside.

_730\. Day by day._

“Seven hundred and thirty?” He asked aloud, “7:30?” He looked up, around, anywhere, “Got anything for me at all, Holmes?”

Sirens blared in the distance, Mrs. Hudson was listening to music downstairs. And that was all.

John pressed the sticky note to the desk divider. It fell almost immediately on its back, the words glaring up at him.

John sighed, “Right.” He turned his head away, staring down into the dark streets below, defeated, “Right…”

And he thought it was nothing at first. It was just a shape, a silhouetted something by the street lamp across the street from Speedy’s. John didn’t even know why it caught his eye. Maybe it was the strange familiarity. Maybe it was the fact that he _knew_ those shoulders. He knew the way those feet were set, the hands in pockets, the mass of curls.

He felt his face slip, lips part in surprise, heart speed up in a way that made his chest physically ache.

“God…” He turned, not blinking, not willing to take the risk, and stood right in front of the window, nose practically against the glass, “God, no.” He pressed his palm to the cool pane and saw a shadowed hand leave a pocket in response, not lifting, just there. John’s heart lurched, his leg no longer hurt, he pressed his other hand to the window, “Sherlock.” He said to himself, “Sherlock.” He said it again, but the figure, the world, didn’t respond, “Sherlock don’t… fuck, don’t move. Don’t move.”

_Don’t move._

He repeated this phrase to himself the entire 12 seconds it took for him to get from the flat to the street, nearly falling in his effort to get the door open.

“No.”

The street was empty. Not even a car. John sprinted to the other side, standing right beneath the streetlamp. He pushed his fingers into his hair, chest rising and falling but air not coming in properly, “No, _no_. Sher…” He spun around and around on the spot, desperately trying to catch any motion, any shadow, “God, no…”

He sat down right there. He didn’t realize it was raining until he felt the wet cement seep through the thin cotton of his pants and no, it was too familiar, too _much_ , too _cruel_. A cruel trick, or a brief moment of relief. Whichever his mind had tried to give him, he didn’t know.

The sun was peaking over the buildings, and Speedy was making its daily bread by the time he moved, barely making it up the stairs. He didn’t even register that it was Sherlock’s chair he was falling into until he woke with a blanket over him a few hours later and a not quite cool cup of tea, courtesy of Mrs. Hudson no doubt. He refused any and all questions from her.

 _I saw him_ he wanted to scream.

_I thought I saw him._


End file.
